


Sweet Disaster

by Flowerparrish



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Baking, Christmas fic, Clint Barton POV, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mistletoe, clint has strong opinions about cupcakes, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish
Summary: His sparkly purple fuzzy socks slip on the tiled floor of the kitchen as he walks in to see…a huge mess. Clint’s honestly not even sure he could have made this big of a mess, which is really saying something. There’s flour all over the counters, batter on the ceiling, and just stuff everywhere. “What’s going on?”Bucky, who is wearing an apron with snowflakes on it that has not done a good enough job in protecting his clothes—but boy does it look like it tried—turns around to fake him, glowering through his aura of abject misery. “Nothing. Go away.”Clint leans his hip against the counter, unbothered by the stripe of flour that’s going to be left behind on his jeans. “Nah, don’t think I will.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 36
Kudos: 173
Collections: MCU Christmas Exchange





	Sweet Disaster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeyBoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyBoy/gifts).



> For HeyBoy as part of the MCU Christmas Exchange! I hope you enjoy this holiday fluff!

Clint’s lying on the floor under the Christmas tree, looking up at the lights through the branches, when he hears a loud bang from the kitchen. Moments later, there’s a muffled curse.

He’s pretty content where he is right now. But then there’s another loud bang, and he sighs, wiggling until he can slide far enough out from underneath the tree to sit up. There are pine needles stuck in his sweater, but whatever. It’s Christmassy. Totally.

His sparkly purple fuzzy socks slip on the tiled floor of the kitchen as he walks in to see…a _huge_ mess. Clint’s honestly not even sure he could have made this big of a mess, which is really saying something. There’s flour all over the counters, batter on the _ceiling,_ and just stuff everywhere. “What’s going on?”

Bucky, who is wearing an apron with snowflakes on it that has not done a good enough job in protecting his clothes—but boy does it look like it tried—turns around to fake him, glowering through his aura of abject misery. “Nothing. Go away.”

Clint leans his hip against the counter, unbothered by the stripe of flour that’s going to be left behind on his jeans. “Nah, don’t think I will.”

Bucky’s glower intensifies. Clint is unmoved. Finally, Bucky sighs and throws up his hands. “I’m making cupcakes.”

Clint blinks and studies the mess. “Okay,” he agrees. “Why?”

Bucky sighs. “Steve said I have to make something for Christmas dinner, and I thought baking wouldn’t be that hard. Not as hard as making a meal.”

“You could just buy cupcakes,” Clint points out. “Also, you could have just said salad. That’s super easy.”

“No.” Clint waits, but no further answer is forthcoming.

Clint rolls his eyes. “Okay. What kind of cupcakes?”

“Chocolate.”

“With what kind of frosting?”

“Chocolate.”

Clint groans. “No. Classic mistake. Too much chocolate. There’s no complexity.”

“I’m not looking for complex,” Bucky growls.

It’s hot. Clint ignores that because there are more important things at hand. Namely, schooling Bucky on how to make decent cupcakes so that Clint doesn’t have to cry over a shitty dessert at Christmas dinner, and so that Steve and Natasha and Bruce don’t cry when they walk in and see the disaster zone that is the kitchen right now.

“Please let me help you,” Clint all but begs.

“I don’t need help.”

Clint eyes the pans in the sink and the batter on the floor that’s only been haphazardly wiped up with paper towels. “You really do.”

Bucky glares at him. Clint glares back.

Bucky wilts. “Okay.”

Clint nods. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

He takes off his socks because they’re just going to get dirty and be in the way. Actually, they’re already covered in flour, yuck. He tosses them toward the living room to pick up (or, more honestly, forget to pick up until Nat yells at him) and wash later. For now, he’s got work to do.

**

First things first, they clean the kitchen up and wash the pans and bowls and utensils that Bucky has made a mess of. “This is honestly pretty impressive,” Clint says. “I thought I was messy.”

“Shut up,” Bucky grumbles, but Clint sees a flush high in his cheeks.

Clint shrugs. “I mean, I don’t know how people can bake without being messy. It just doesn’t make sense.”

Some of the tension goes out of Bucky’s shoulders at that—score. But all he says is, “They’re probably just not walking disasters like you,” which makes Clint grin.

“Like _us,”_ he points out. “Now, okay, show me your recipe. We’re going to google one for frosting—vanilla or cream cheese?”

Bucky chooses cream cheese frosting—the _correct_ choice—and shows Clint a printed paper that’s covered in chocolatey fingerprints.

They get to work.

Clint could make the cupcakes and assign Bucky the simple task of handing him ingredients and reading off the recipe. But then Bucky wouldn’t learn, and also, where’s the fun in that?

Instead, he demonstrates how to do each step, and then hands them off to Bucky. The electronic mixer throws him for a loop, but he’s the Winter Soldier, so he gets the hang of it after minimal amounts of batter being splattered across the walls, counters, and their shirts.

Clint looks down sadly at his pastel purple and white shirt and thinks, _shit, I should have changed, or at least worn an apron._

Too late now. These cupcakes better be worth it.

Scooping the batter into the tins is easy, although Bucky almost forgets to line them with paper cups.

“Pouring would be faster,” Bucky insists.

“Yeah, and then you’d have wonky cupcakes that were all different sizes and burnt cupcake bits stuck to the pan.”

Bucky flicks batter at Clint. Not to be outdone, Clint scoops a handful of flour and dumps it over Bucky’s hair.

“Shit,” Bucky yelps, jumping back.

Clint laughs helplessly at the image of Bucky with a white dusting over his head and shoulders. “Got you.”

They finish the filling the tins and get the cupcakes in the over with only a few more casualties—Clint’s shirt is pretty gone at this point, may it rest in peace—and then they start in on the frosting.

Bucky takes point, Clint sitting on the island counter to keep an eye on the process while he licks the bowl of cupcake batter clean. “That’s disgusting and unhygienic,” Bucky tells him.

“ _You’re_ disgusting and unhygienic,” Clint shoots back.

Bucky rolls his eyes but lets it go. Clint sees a small smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s lips, but he doesn’t call him on it.

When the frosting is done, it has to chill, and the cupcakes come out of the oven and go onto a cooling rack.

“Want to play Call of Duty?” Clint offers.

Bucky eyes him, considering. After a moment, he shrugs. “Yeah. Shooting your guy will definitely make me feel better.”

“Hey!” Clint protests, but he’s laughing.

**

Somehow frosting cupcakes is messier than making them. They don’t just end up with frosting on their fingers—it ends up on Bucky’s cheek, on Clint’s nose. There’s a little bit at the corner of Bucky’s mouth where it got smeared when he was licking some off of one of his fingers, and Clint gets hit with the _need_ to lick it away.

He takes a step back. Bucky glances over at him, raising an eyebrow in question. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Clint says, when he is absolutely _not_ fine. Crushing on Bucky is one thing, but this? This need to kiss him that feels so strong Clint’s surprised he’s not shaking? That’s… different. “You can finish from here, right? There’s something I gotta go do.”

Bucky looks confused, but he nods. “Yeah, sure. See you at dinner later.”

“Later,” Clint agrees, and then he’s scrambling out of the room as fast as he can without making it look like he’s running away.

He makes it all the way back to his room before he realizes he forgot to pick up his socks. Fuck, Nat’s gonna be so pissed.

**

When he makes it down to Christmas Eve dinner, wearing a sweater that’s purple but has ugly dancing snowmen on it—a gift from Nat that’s years old and is wearing thin—she throws his flour-covered purple socks at his head.

He laughs and tucks them under the couch, out of the way, and promises he’ll pick them up later. She’s unconvinced, as she should be, but it’s the holidays, so she lets it go with only mild glaring.

Clint tries really hard _not_ to look at Bucky during dinner. He thinks he’s successful, but Nat keeps sending him curious glances, so he’s apparently not _subtle._ Oh well.

They retire to the living room to watch movies after dinner, and Bucky starts putting the cupcakes on a tray so he can bring them into the living room with them.

“I didn’t know you could bake, Buck,” Clint hears Steve saying from the other room.

“I had help,” Bucky replies. His voice sounds… _off,_ somehow, but Clint can’t tell more than that.

Nat nudges his shoulder and says, “Bring me coffee.”

Clint whines and groans but ultimately agrees, because now that she’s mentioned coffee, he needs it too. He heads into the kitchen and passes under the doorway at the same time as Bucky’s heading the opposite direction with the platter. They don’t bump into each other—there’s plenty of space—but Steve says, “Uh, guys,” and Tony starts cat-calling in the background.

Clint… doesn’t know what’s going on. He freezes and glances over at Natasha.

She looks smug. That’s not a good sign.

“What?” Bucky asks impatiently.

“Look up.”

Clint follows Steve’s suggestion and groans. “We’re not teenagers. I am not kissing someone just because there’s mistletoe.”

“You are absolutely a teenager,” Natasha tells him. “And it’s tradition.”

And here’s the thing: he doesn’t like to deny Natasha the chance to follow through with traditions she missed out on.

He glances at Bucky, who is watching him, eyes dark. “I don’t mind,” Bucky says after a moment.

That’s a far cry from wanting to, though, and Clint still hesitates. Bucky rolls his eyes, holds the platter out of the way, and drops a kiss on Clint’s cheek. “There,” he says to the others.

There’s some laughter and some whines of disappointment—mostly Tony—and then Bucky’s moved out of Clint’s space, easy as that.

Like Clint’s cheek isn’t tingling from the smallest brush of Bucky’s lips; like he hasn’t been left with his heart pounding out of control in his chest.

He somehow makes it into the kitchen and to the coffee pot. He goes through the motions of making it on autopilot, leans against the counter while it brews and thinks, _what the fuck was that?_

Bucky joins him a few minutes later, when the coffee’s done and Clint’s stalling for time. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” He frowns when he says the words, like he’s annoyed at something, but that’s just how Bucky is: grumpy on the outside, and underneath that, startlingly sweet.

God, Clint’s so gone for him. How is he only realizing this now?

“No, it’s…” Clint trails off. “It was fine.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, shuts it, and turns his gaze to the ground, glowering darkly. “I wanted to kiss you.”

“Oh,” Clint says, and then mentally kicks himself. _Oh?_ Really? Is that the best he could do?

But actually, kind of yes, because what _else_ can he say to that. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now,” Bucky says, each word sounding like it hurts him to say it, “but I didn’t want to kiss you if you didn’t want me to.”

_Oh,_ Clint thinks, again, but he’s got to come up with something better to say. He blurts, “I wanted to lick frosting off of your face,” and promptly decides that, y’know what? He’s lived a good few decades on this Earth, and now if it could do him the solid of swallowing him whole, that would be pretty great, please and thank you very much.

Bucky’s lips tug into a grin even as he shoots Clint a confused glance. “What?”

Clint sighs. The Earth does not appear to want to swallow him whole. Just his fucking luck. “You had frosting on your mouth earlier, and I wanted to lick it off. That’s why I ran away.”

Bucky’s smile looks brighter, now. It’s maybe the best thing Clint’s ever seen. “We could try again?” he says, and Clint thinks, _try what again?_ “The kissing,” Bucky clarifies.

“Oh,” Clint says, his new favorite word. “I mean, uh, yeah, I’d—I’d like that.”

Bucky advances on him, arms coming up on either side Clint’s hips on the counter, boxing him in. His mouth is inches from Clint’s, breath warm on his face, when he asks, so softly, “Yeah?”

Clint can’t think of words. He just nods, once, quickly.

That is, luckily, all the encouragement Bucky needs. He leans forward and kisses Clint, whose eyes drift shut at the touch. It’s simple, just a press of lips against his own, but it makes something warm unfurl in Clint’s chest where his heart is supposed to be. It feels so hot it should hurt, actually, but it doesn’t, it just feels _good._

When Bucky pulls back, Clint lets out a shaky sigh. Bucky hasn’t pulled back far, though, and Clint can almost _feel_ Bucky’s smile against his own.

“ _Finally,”_ says a voice from behind them. Clint startles, and Bucky steadies him easily before turning to glare at the person interrupting them.

Tony, of course, is staring at them without an ounce of shame. “You’re in the way of the coffee pot,” he says. “Also, get a room.”

Bucky flips him off but moves away from Clint, and Clint’s knees remember how to hold his weight so that he can move aside. Tony pours coffee into his own mug, and then into the two that Clint left out, and says, “You can’t get a room until after movies, though. Spending the holiday with your family is mandatory.”

“But—” Clint tries.

“Nope,” Tony says. “C’mon, bird-brain.”

Clint sighs but picks up the mugs and follows Tony out into the living room where the others are arguing over what to watch.

Natasha has moved over on the couch, and now there’s an open space next to Clint. He raises an eyebrow at her, but she ignores him, not even looking his direction when she takes the coffee cup he hands her. He shrugs internally and sits down in the middle of the three-person couch, and then suddenly understands when Bucky sinks down on his other side.

He turns to Bucky and can’t help but smile at the sight of him. But narrows his eyes at Clint, as if to say _don’t say anything,_ and Clint grins wider. Obligingly, he doesn’t comment.

Bucky drops an arm across Clint’s shoulders and Clint tucks himself into Bucky’s side. It’s nice.

**

Clint’s movie choice—Elf, but only because they said Die Hard didn’t count—gets outvoted, so he mostly ignores whatever they end up putting on and focuses on the warmth of Bucky next to him.

He doesn’t remember drifting off to sleep. He wakes to a brush of cool metal fingers through his hair. “Bedtime?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Clint stumbles to the elevator and Bucky follows after him, nudging him a few times in order to keep him from bumping into walls or chairs or tables. Clint presses the button for his floor and then hesitates, looking at Bucky. “Stay the night?” He winces. “I mean, not to—” He sighs. “Just to sleep?”

Bucky’s eyes are soft when he says, “Yeah, Clint. That sounds nice.”

**

Clint crawls into bed beside Bucky, both of them wearing boxers and t-shirts, and curls around him happily. “Best Christmas,” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He feels lips brush against his forehead. “I think so too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ruq for running this event! I hope you enjoyed the fic; please let me know if you liked it! And happy holidays!


End file.
